I Will Remember You

I Will Remember You

D. A. Ratliff

A busy newsroom buzzed around him, but Jason Kane was oblivious. His attention focused on the newspaper lying on the desk. The headline read: "First Break in the Disappearance of Local Women".

The thump of his heartbeat echoed in Jason’s head as he stared at the color image above the fold. The photo showed him standing with city police Detective Sergeant Logan Brisbane and the County Sheriff, John Camden, watching two forensic techs brush the dirt from a shallow grave. The suspected resting place of a victim of a serial killer nicknamed The Ghost. He scoffed. He loved the moniker, surreal, mysterious. The suspect had written it on the back of the photo of a dead woman he mailed to Jason and included the longitude and latitude of her location. Who better to send a record of a kill to other than WLAT’s top investigative reporter?

Jason took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair, recounting his live interview earlier in the day. It was on cable news, and he was excited as the hour’s anchor was his favorite.

“Jason, thanks for coming on the show to tell us about this bizarre story.”

“Thanks, Christie. Glad to be here.”

“Mortified is the only word I would use if I had gotten that photo. Tell us what happened.”

“About a week ago, I received an envelope that contained a photograph of a young woman. On the back, written in bold handwriting, “my first, find her” and two sets of numbers which turned out to be longitude and latitude.”

“The image was of her grave?”

“Yes, she was lying in a shallow grave, and there was no question that she was dead.”

He remembered the anchor’s eyes widening ever so slightly when he uttered the word dead. She continued. “Several young women have disappeared from the community. Do authorities suspect the body found is one of them?”

“They do but have not made a positive ID as of yet. Over the last eighteen months, nine women have gone missing from the area. Vanished without a trace, and it wasn’t until the photo mailed to me and signed The Ghost that the authorities deemed the disappearances connected. They believe his term ‘my first’ means something.”

“Why do you think the suspected killer sent you the photo?”

“I had done an investigative series on the disappearances. Talking to the families and friends and the police, hoping to uncover something that might help to discover what happened to these women. The police believe now that he has the spotlight on him, he will continue to communicate.”

The anchor shook her head. “Frightening for those families, but hopefully, the police will learn more about this soon. Please keep us posted, Jason, and thanks for joining me. We’ll have you back as more developments occur.”

He smiled. The spotlight was not bad.

~~~

The second envelope arrived with the same parchment brown paper, letter-sized, with no return address, and a single standard stamp. Nestled between other mail, Jason let the envelope drop to the dining room table untouched and called the police, then his producer. He sat next to the table, his fingers tapping lightly on the surface near the envelope, itching to open it.

A uniformed officer was first on the scene to take custody of the envelope until forensics arrived. Detective Brisbane and his partner came ten minutes later, followed by a forensics tech. As soon as the tech placed a plastic sheet on the table and had evidence bags ready, she opened the envelope and removed the contents, a photo. She put the photo and envelope in separate evidence bags, sealed and ID’d them, and handed the bagged photo to the detective.

The image was nearly identical to the first he received. The body of a young woman, nude and lying in a shallow grave, a scarf tied around her neck. The only differences were the victim’s identity and the location.

The detective turned the photo over to find another note. My second. Find her, along with a list of numbers indicating the location of the body.

Jason’s pulse quickened as he gazed at the body. She lay covered with soil and leaves to preserve her modesty, as the victim had been in the first photo.

“…. Jason, did you hear me?” Brisbane tapped his shoulder.

“Yes, sorry. I was thinking about how horrible this is for the family.”

“It is, but at least they will have closure.” He wrote the location coordinates down and handed the evidence bag to a tech. “Get this image out to the field team. Come on, Kane, you can ride with me, but you know the drill. Stay out of the way.”

The GPS coordinates took them ten miles north of town to a remote section of a state park, miles from the location of the first body. The detective turned off the main highway onto a narrow dirt fire road. About a quarter of a mile after the turnoff, they found a forensics van, several squad cars, and the media already there.

Brisbane parked along the shoulder, and with both hands on the wheel, he turned his head toward Jason. “I figured you called your people. Let me remind you, you reveal anything about what we find here before authorized, and your sources dry up. Understand?”

Jason nodded. “Understood.”

The lead forensic tech, a forensic anthropologist, used GPS on a pad to lead them along an inclined path next to a shallow ravine filled with broken logs and rotting leaves. The musty odor was overpowering, and city boy Jason preferred the smell of asphalt to damp earth. He stood quietly as the anthropologist held up her pad and scanned the area at the target location, stopping after scanning to her left. “Detective, this looks like the place. If you note, there is a bit of indention on the forest floor here. We’ll check here and the immediate area. But from the photo, I think this is the spot.” Accompanied by a uniformed officer, each of the four techs chose a separate location and began moving away dirt. Jason stood to the side, jotting notes on his phone.

For endless minutes, their silence only marred by an occasional bird caw or a low clatter from the police radios, they waited until the anthropologist stood up. “Here. She’s here.” The tech pointed to two thin bones, “The ulna and radius, the forearm. With the absence of flesh on the bones, I would say she has been here at least twelve months, likely longer.”

A few hours dragged by, and after repeated requests from his producer, Brisbane permitted Jason to break the story on the eleven o’clock news. Brisbane would appear with him.

Bright temporary floodlights on the hill behind them framed the shot as the anchor in the studio began to speak.

“We begin tonight with breaking news of a body discovered in a remote location in the state park. Investigative reporter Jason Kane is on the scene. Jason, I understand you received another photograph, which led to the discovery of a second body in a shallow grave.”

“Yes, Ted, unfortunately, I received a second envelope today with a photo inside and instructions on where to find the body. I called the police immediately and turned the evidence over to them. Detective Logan Brisbane allowed me to accompany them to the site, where we have been since late afternoon.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You can see the floodlights set up at the location police discovered the remains.”

Ted interjected. “Any idea who the victim is.”

“I think Detective Brisbane should answer that.”

Jason stepped aside for the detective. “It is certainly too early to tell who the victim is. We can confirm the remains are female and suspect she may be a victim of the killer, who refers to himself as The Ghost. However, we have only suspicions at this time, no proof. The remains will be removed shortly, and it will be up to the medical examiner to determine the identity and cause of death. Ted, that’s all we know for now, but we will keep you informed as further details come in.”

“Thanks, Jason. Tragic discovery, but we look forward to your update. In other news….”

The bright camera lights shut off, and Jason turned toward Brisbane. “Thanks. I appreciate you going live.”

“No problem. You are our conduit to this killer, and he’s watching, so it is in our interests to keep this story going. These guys dropping you off home?”

“Yeah, but Eric, my producer, wants them to stay until the ME removes the remains. He wants body bag footage. So, I’ll be here a while. Okay, if I go back up with you?”

“Sure. Just…”

“…stay out of the way. Got you, Detective.”

~~~

Three days later, the ME identified the victim as Jennifer Cramer, nineteen, a student at the local community college. Her roommate had reported her missing fourteen months before. Jason stared at her image on his computer screen. A slender young girl with pale skin and bright blue eyes. Twenty years younger than he was and had so much promise.

“That the latest vic?”

Jason swiveled his chair to answer his producer. “Yeah, that’s her. Pretty thing.”

Eric sneered. “Wonder if he raped them?”

Anger welled up inside Jason at such an insensitive question. He clenched a fist but answered calmly. “ME at the first scene said it was almost impossible to tell with only skeletal remains. He said they might never know unless they caught the guy.”

“You got lucky to be the one to get the letters. Jacoby was preening about the publicity for the station in the morning meeting. Your buddy Maya even seemed happy about it.” Eric slapped him on the shoulder. “If we are lucky, you will get more letters. Okay, got to go. Meeting with Maya on a special she wants to do, and I think you need to be in on this. She has an idea about looking at safety on college campuses. See ya later.”

Eric left, and Jason’s eyes drifted back to the screen where the image of Jennifer Cramer morphed into the face of Maya Reyes, WLAT’s top evening news anchor. A wave of heat coursed through his veins. Wonder what The Ghost would do with her?

~~~

A three-day holiday slowed mail delivery and nine days passed before he received a third letter. Going through the same ritual as before, he called the police, waited for them to arrive to secure the letter, and then rode with Detective Brisbane to the scene. Once again, the newspaper headline read Third Victim of The Ghost Found. Another young college student, dead for an estimated ten months and not quite skeletonized. He shivered when he saw a patch of red hair attached to her skull as an ME assistant lifted it from the grave.

After the discovery of a third victim, the atmosphere began to change. The local police called in the FBI and the US Postal Inspectors, who held his mail for screening at the post office before delivery. He had undergone a detailed interview by a serious and entirely humorless local FBI agent who kept asking him if he had gone to bars in the campus area and if he had seen these women. He had laughed. He didn’t drink, didn’t go to bars. The agent was a fool.

A month later, there were six victims, and he was a fixture on cable news. The pretty blond anchor Christie messaged him on Facebook several times a day, hinting that some people at the network were getting interested in his reporting. Facebook was full of friend requests, and his Twitter followers rose quickly. The Ghost was not the only one in the limelight.

It was late when he returned from the sixth gravesite, but although tired, exhilaration filled him. A book agent had offered to represent him two weeks before and quite unexpectedly. He was waiting for the removal of the latest victim when she called, saying she had secured a book deal with a well-known publisher. She had even located a ghostwriter for him.

He punched the remote, and the WLAT eleven p.m. news appeared. Maya led with his earlier filed story, as the satellite truck was unavailable. He sat motionless, watching himself. He had to admit he was good at speaking in the correct, respectful tone to cover such a heinous crime. His pulse quickened as Maya turned to her co-anchor and talked about him.

“Jason has done such an amazing job covering this horrific story. Kudos to him and his producer, Eric Watson, for providing such professional coverage and critical information. Our hearts go out to the families of these young women for their unspeakable loss.”

Her co-anchor responded in his usual groveling fashion. “Jason and Eric are the best. I know you have taken these horrible crimes to heart and will be doing an upcoming special on how women, especially these young women, preyed on so often, can be safer in the community.”

“Thanks. That special will be airing soon, and hopefully, we will provide some insight into how we can all be safer on our streets. Let’s turn to our crack meteorologist for a first look at tonight’s forecast.”

Jason smashed the power button with his thumb and flung the remote onto the couch. Bitch. She was why he did it. She stole the anchor job from him. He had the best demo tapes, creds as a weekend anchor at a station in a larger market, and a degree in broadcast journalism, but no, Maya Reyes got the job.

Anger began to roil in him. He stood in the middle of the room, nails digging into his palms from his clenched fists. The station manager had smiled when he told him the job wasn’t his. Something about demographics favoring female anchors, and if they were going to take over number one in the market, they needed her. Yeah, well, that worked out. They were still number two in the market. But wait until the next ratings book came out. That would change. They would be number one, and he would be the reason.

A smile spread across his face. He closed the drapes, moved some furniture, and then rolled back the oriental rug. Three years before, he had inherited his grandfather’s house as the rest of his family was gone and had made a curious discovery when refinishing the floors—a secret room. The house appeared to have only a half-basement, but looks could be deceiving. He took a letter opener from the roll-top desk and slipped it in the seam between two boards, prying up the hatch, seamless when looking at it closely. He reached in and pulled on a cord, and lights came on in the underground room. He climbed down the ladder into his haven.

His grandfather, who owned a portrait studio, had, unbeknownst to anyone, become quite the photographer of nude women. He had lived in the house alone for many years, his wife dying when she was only twenty-seven. Jason had found file after file of naked women in various poses against backdrops now stored in the room. He also found receipts of the sales made to men’s magazines.

His grandfather's Hasselblad professional camera had a broken shutter, but he dared not fix it–too many questions, but the old Nikon 35-millimeter worked fine for his purpose. A small refrigerator held several rolls of 35-millimeter film, all intact and unspoiled. The coup de gras, however, was the darkroom equipped to process color film. It was a learning curve, but he had mastered the technique.

He considered destroying his grandfather’s photos and negatives when the urge to photograph women crept into his thoughts. After losing the anchor job, he was furious and drove around the city to cool off, finally stopping about nine p.m. at an all-night diner where he met his first victim, Alexandria Toombs. She was studying for an exam with only coffee in front of her. He noticed she looked at his scrambled eggs and waffles longingly. Poor student, he thought, and he bought her breakfast. He never understood what made him suggest she pose for him, but he talked her into it and took her home with the promise to pay her that night.

Jason never intended her to be his first victim. He just wanted to photograph her. When they arrived at his house, he turned on the television so she could relax while he set up the backdrop in one of the bedrooms. When he returned to the living room, Maya Reyes was on the screen, and Alexandria made a fatal error.

He remembered her words. Maya Reyes announced that she would be the lead anchor starting next week. Isn’t that wonderful? I just love her. You know she isn’t much older than I am.

Something snapped. He had never understood why, but rage, as he had never felt before, washed over him, and he grabbed her by the neck and strangled her. When she was dead, a calm descended over him, and he took the photos he had intended to take. He loved a woman’s body but disapproved of the graphic images his grandfather took. He remembered a box of his grandmother’s scarves in the open basement and retrieved them. He tied one around her neck to hide the bruising, using others to drape her breasts and groin.

He left her in the bedroom. After her body came out of rigor, he carried her to the garage, placing her in the car trunk. Before dawn the following morning, Jason drove to a remote wooded area and dug a shallow grave. He took one last photo, making sure to maintain her modesty.

There was a sense of satisfaction, a pleasurable sensation, and the urge returned. Each death became more gratifying.

Wearing rubber gloves as always, he opened his favorite photo box and pulled out the photo of victim number seven. He took off his glasses and picked up the old magnifying glass for one last closeup look at her face, beautiful even in death. He whispered, “I will remember you.” Turning the photo over, he printed the coordinates from a little book he kept and My seventh. Find her.

Slipping the photo into a parchment-colored envelope, he carefully addressed it to himself. In a few days, he would drive to a random part of the city and find a mailbox on the street.

Carefully he put everything away, but before climbing the ladder, he glanced at the little refrigerator. Several rolls of film remained stored inside. He smiled. A book deal, a possible job at a cable news network, and social media friends galore, all because he became The Ghost.

He was going to need that film.